Touch
by RhondaStar
Summary: Carson muses on the times he's touched, or been touched, by Mrs. Hughes. Melancholy (and slight comedic) romance.
1. Chapter 1

_Carson muses on the times he's touched, or been touched, by Mrs Hughes. Melancholy romance!_

**Touch**

It occurs to him that he's actually seen very little of her skin.

Beneath that black dress and starched posture.

Beyond the obvious of course.

Her hands – he often starts there – he's observed for years. He remembers, or rather holds on to, those moments when she's touched him. Held his elbow, felt his brow, rubbed his hand when he's been pained (Sybil's death… he remembers her hands holding his). The sea. The smell of the air. The sweep of the warm water rolling over his toes. Her hand. Her fingers folded with his. He remembers that, holds onto it, when nights are lonely – as they so often are.

Hands lead to wrists and he delights (foolishly) in the fact he's seen them too. In fact at times the steady throb of her pulse hidden beneath delicate, porcelain skin drives him to distraction. He thinks of rubbing his thumb over the skin, turning her hand over in his palm, perhaps placing a tender kiss there, his tongue gentle… slight... teasing.

These thoughts come unbidden and he buries them away, as a good servant should. Down beneath the mattress of his solitary bed, somewhere within the springs where the dust settles and ages.

But then. Oh but then she comes to his office after breakfast, and she stands by the small window allowing the spring sunshine to light her face and he watches the shadow as it moves. The curve of her chin down to her neck, the way her hair – neatly coiled – elegantly frames the side of her face. It looks thick, glossy, he wishes he were the sun, he wishes he had its touch.

He wonders how her dress fastens, perhaps hidden buttons, an eye-and-hook, something that distracts him. That damned fabric across her chest fastened right up to the base of her neck. The skin on her neck is white, often like snow, as pure and unblemished. He finds himself musing on these facts during hot nights in his small attic room when the air is tight against him and he throws off his blankets in frustration and muses and dwells and contemplates.

Would the skin on her chest be as white? Does she have freckles? Scars from childhood? She worked on the farm; he knows that, he can tell that from her sturdy posture, strong legs, great energy. Perhaps she took tumbles, more than grazed knees, are there memories of her past etched on her body?

These thoughts lead to nothing.

Or worse, they lead to ruminations on subjects that should be kept from his mind. Because a neck (well, he would trail the tip of his tongue along that) leads to a chest (and sweet kisses across her freckles) to a bosom (and he can't possibly imagine what he'd do if ever got that far for fear of heart failure).

Corsets have always confused him. The female dress as a whole. He remembers fumbling with them in his younger days, days he'd rather rub from the chalkboard, melting away into dust. But he never really got any further than a quick grope of a young girl's breasts in them. He's no innocent. But he was never a rogue.

There was a particular older woman who taught him a fair few things about female anatomy. Enough that when he looks at Elsie he knows what he's missing. Knows what he wants. Though of course it goes beyond intimacy. Beyond the basics, the perfunctory movements of lovers.

What he wants from her is messy. Tied up with his role/job/life as Butler. A home. A partner. Perhaps a wife. Her company. Her words. Her warmth.

And yet he has all that. He knows he does, he reminds himself of it when winter comes and his yearly depression sets in.

But is it enough? If it was then surely he wouldn't question. Wouldn't dream and wish and yearn… and god how he yearns at times.

He feels like an adolescent, he remembers as a boy – on the cusp of being a man – how he would marvel at the way a girl walked, or wonder what went on in bath houses, long for a glimpse. He'd see his mother's corset drying by the fire with the other clothes on a Sunday night and try to figure its purpose. Men didn't wear such things. What was it for? Where did it go?

The agitated thoughts that come with growing up, feelings he didn't understand, feelings that weren't discussed. And then he found city life and stumbled onto the stage and a whole new world opened up to him. Red cheeks, heavy breath, hot bodies squashed into tight corners where things happen.

He wants her in his bed. His small bed. To hold her close. Whisper. Breathe. Touch.

Yet he rises alone. Washes with cold water to quell any hint of desire. Dresses, a tight uniform, a heavy burden, and carries himself downstairs with the same stiff posture that's fitted him for a lifetime.

She wakes a similar time to him, he falls into step behind her on the stairs on the way down, watches her back, the hint of skin at the nape of her neck. The slope of her shoulder.

She's talking to him of something someone did and laughing. He's not following.

When they reach the bottom step she turns, looks up at him, "Mr. Carson? Is anything wrong?"

"No," he says gently, or gruffly, he isn't sure which. "Why?"

"Your hand is on my shoulder." She smiles, her head tipped slightly to one side.

He leaves it there, a second too long perhaps, watching his own fingers tapping on her shoulder as if he's watching a stranger. It's too long. She senses something. A shift in the texture of their well-manicured lives. Like the day on the beach. Things shift and change, as slow as the tide creeping to shore.

Jimmy comes behind them, taking the stairs two at a time, doing his collar, he's late.

His hand leaves her shoulder, his fingers snatch in on themselves as if caught cheating on a test. His stomach curls.

Jimmy hasn't noticed. Charles should snap, bark, growl out a command. He watches the young man disappear into the room for breakfast unscathed.

"Mr Carson…" she says again, a whisper this time as she steps closer to him, becomes part of the air he's breathing. "Would you perhaps like to talk?"

He is silent. Embarrassed – he should be, or foolish – letting down his guard. But the truth is he's confused. What's broken in him? What's moved and altered the space?

"I was going to take a walk to the village this afternoon, would you… perhaps like to join me?"

He nods. Tongue dry in his mouth.

She reaches for his arm, squeezes it. He feels it as the earth might feel a lightning strike.

"After lunch?" He asks.

She slides her fingers down to his hand and taps the back of it with her index finger. It is a quick, fleeting touch; to him it feels like forever has just stretched out in front of him as he watches her lead the way from him into breakfast.


	2. Chapter 2

_I didn't intend to write a sequel/continue 'Touch', it was simply a one-off idea that popped into my head. However, spurred on by your reviews and Mrs. Hughes' voice in my head - here's part 2. I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

><p>He fiddles with his gloves like a fool. Rigid and upright in the yard behind the kitchens.<p>

The hat on his head feels tight and his forehead throbs; he thinks of how he should have called it off, how it would be better to keep his head down and avoid unnecessary messiness.

He touched her shoulder.

He dwells on this fact like trying to fiddle a splinter from his thumb. She was there, before him, and he dreamt something (it seemed a dream anyway) and touched her shoulder and now he's going to pay for it because butlers of his standing don't touch. Not without a safety net.

She probably thinks him mad. Or ill. He rubs his forehead – clammy – and considers the possibility that he is ill. Temporarily out of sorts.

There's a damp air creeping in and he makes the decision quickly to return to his office and bury his face in a ledger and feign work. But when he opens the door to return inside she comes out, bustling, pulling on her own gloves (covering her hands) and he's trapped by her eyes.

"Oh, that was good timing, thank you." She says, gaiety in her voice, normal, Mrs. Hughes. Her accent lilting away from him in the light drizzle that's started.

She has an umbrella.

She is walking, he focuses on her heels, the click in the forming puddles, the curve of an ankle beneath a stocking.

"Well, come on then." She says without turning and he hurries after her, catching in a few strides, she has to lift the umbrella high to cover them both and he takes it from her hand and carries out the task instead. He aims to be a gentleman.

They walk in silence. She happy to do so. Enjoy the air. The freshness. The freedom of the outdoors – she's a farm girl after all. He waits until he feels the shadow of the house ease from his shoulders, if he glanced back he'd see the very top of it sneaking a peek over the trees but he doesn't. He faces forward on the gravel-yellow path.

"Shall we take afternoon tea in the village?" She asks it, but he hears a statement, a certainty.

"What will they say?"

"What will _who_ say?" She glances at him, turning her face to watch his, white and damp in the misty rain. "I was going to take tea there anyway, I don't see as that it matters that you'll be joining me. We aren't doing anything indecent."

His eyebrows raise involuntary (its second nature now, like breathing).

"Really Mr. Carson, you make me out…" She doesn't finish the statement but chuckles instead; he thinks she's leaned in closer to him, he feels her warmth.

"If the staff knew." He stops suddenly, turning to face her on the path – his body eager to get back. "What do _they_ think?"

"Let the staff think what they want." He stiffens. Awkward and uneasy. "Oh…" she softens. She's given him time – months since the hand-holding – she's patient but lord knows he's difficult. She hadn't realised just how tentatively this would have to go. "Mr. Carson they aren't even aware we've gone together. I suppose they think you're hard at work in your study whilst I'm out. Anna knows. Mrs. Patmore knows. Do you worry so for their judgement?"

"No I…" he sighs, (she always seems to be one step ahead of him in all things), "No, I trust their discretion."

Annoyed she turns away from him, "We aren't doing anything wrong." She says gruffly. "_We aren't doing anything."_ She thinks to herself.

It's up to him to catch up again and he does so mostly because the drizzle has eased into rain and she's getting wet.

They're silent for the rest of the walk.

He watches her stamp and post letters. Buy a Birthday card. Say 'good afternoon' to an acquaintance in the village. How easy it could be. He thinks. Like being a husband. Watching his wife carrying out daily routines. He knows everything about her (he likes to tell himself that) and it comforts him to be with her, even when the task is bland and of the everyday.

The tearoom is empty, the weather isn't up to much, and she takes her favourite table in the corner by the window. They order tea and she chooses a lemon sponge. He declines.

He feels too big for the seat. For the small tearoom. His hands are folded tightly on the table – his fingers trapped by his own fingers – and he asks himself what he's doing there and how he longs to escape back to Downton and the security of his role.

"Mr. Carson," she says gently and he fixes his attention on her wishing they'd hurry with the tea.

"Do you want to talk?"

"Yes, let's talk." He straightens back in the chair. "I was thinking about the dinner next week."

She rolls her eyes and he stops mid-sentence. "We can talk about that back there. I thought we could really talk."

He bites his tongue as a distraction. Her hair has curled in the rain and he thinks how natural it looks. Of course he could play dumb; no knowledge of what she could possibly wish to discuss other than work. But then he risks something, he isn't sure what but the taste of it is in the back of his throat and he's unsure of the consequences either way.

She sips her tea and pushes her plate towards him.

"Would you like to try it, it's very good."

He takes it as a peace offering, or a way out, and uses her fork to have a mouthful of cake. Realising, as he chewed, that she too had had that same fork in her mouth. The thought does something to his innards and he tightens his stomach to push it away.

She sighs, watching him eat, glances to the window, "The dinner next week." She says absently.

"I'm sorry," he whispers and her gaze returns to him.

"For what?" She puts her cup down and he refills it. It strikes her as odd to watch him pour _her_ tea and that very idea makes her question the whole thing. How can they possibly move forward when he's never poured her tea… only he has now.

She adds milk to their cups.

"For what?" She says again, momentarily distracted by a young mother struggling with her baby at the other side of the room. It's crying. She leans forward across the table to hear his response.

"The dinner."

"Not the touch?"

Her candidness always gets him. He wonders just when she tightened her hold… he's right around her finger.

He shakes his head. He isn't sorry for it. He's embarrassed, concerned, perhaps even scared. But no, not sorry.

She drinks her tea quickly eager to be alone with him again.

"Let's take the long walk back," she says as she takes coins from her purse.

"I should pay." He offers sitting upright.

"Next time."

He feels as if he's been given a reprieve and he wonders how long she'll do that. Let him off the hook.

The afternoon light is softening and with it the rain easing off. They are in time now, stride for stride.

"I would hope, after all these years, that we can be honest with each other if nothing else." She says finally, worried their walk will come to naught, and it's so rare for them to catch time together beyond the house walls.

"Yes," he answers quickly, confidently. "I trust you implicitly," because if he's sure of anything it's that.

She's not sure she could have been more touched if he'd confessed love (perhaps one day, perhaps).

"Well then, I would appreciate knowing...that is, what it is that's bothering you?"

He could mull on it, give her short shrift, cut it dead then and there. But there's a heart somewhere beneath the stiff shirt.

"Mr. Carson," she says sternly, stopping beneath a Yew – fragrant with the rain. Drooping, like tears. He faces her, hands folded in front of his chest. "Charles," she says, and he finds his breath again, caught at the sound of his name on her lips. "I won't judge you."

"I know that," his eyes momentarily leave hers and scan the floor, wet with fallen leaves.

"The thing is, perhaps… No, there's no 'perhaps', it unsettled me."

She's hopeful. A breakthrough. "What did?" Gentle, ease it out of him, tentative, tip-toed steps.

"The beach."

There.

She exhales. Smiles, just slightly, the joy in her chest radiating out in nothing but a mere curve of her lips. It means everything.

"And…"

"And I don't know what to do about that."

"It's been months."

"I'm aware of that." That snappish tone.

_Gentle, Elsie, gentle._ She reminds herself of his nerves, like treading around a plant ready to snap. Tip-toe.

Time. She gives him seconds of silence. They stretch out into minutes. He turns from her; scans the distance – a line of fields, hedgerows, fences, there are cows in the distance waiting to be fed and the smell of England on the breeze.

She no longer dreams of Scotland. This is home.

He turns back to her – as she knew he would – moves closer, as if he's toiled it over in his mind and reached a decision. An impasse.

"I want more from you than this." He says clearly, as if the words had been practiced for centuries.

Somewhere a bird escapes its cage.

She swallows, gains momentum, steps towards him taking hold of both of his hands in hers. Leather bound like rare books; she holds them tenderly.

"Mrs Hughes..." He says and she smiles in response.

"Perhaps this is a moment where titles aren't needed." She realises that's like asking for a blood oath from him. "…Charles," she adds, ever defiant.

"Elsie," he tests the word out on the crisp, damp air, recalling nights where he's whispered it into his pillow. "I keep thinking of that darned beach."

She tightens her hold, "I think of it too."

"I believe, it may have addled my brain."

"Perhaps it just gave it a jolt." She breathes, if the words aren't said now then she'll dance around it for many more months. Maybe forever. "We're getting older; I don't want to spend my life alone."

He's about to insist she isn't alone. He thinks better of it. Some moments, some times, you stand outside of it and look in, realising the importance of the moment. Others slip by as wistfully as youth. Later, when gone, they hover, a storm on the outskirts of sunshine.

"I don't know what to do."

She isn't used to seeing him scared. Unsure.

"We'll do what we always do, we're friends first."

"Always."

"Then slowly, carefully, we'll navigate it together."


End file.
